Their eyes were bad, as they fought for our feed,
When the air grew chill in the Northern blast,
And the white flakes fell from the sodden sky,
On the sleeted lakes, soon frozen hard fast.
Pure white was the cowl of the arctic owl,
And soft was his voice from the cedar deep;
As we ploughed our yard ’neath the mountain’s guard,
And marked our birch for the long winter’s keep.
Now, sharp came the clang, as the wood-axe rang,
“’Tis man,” said our kin, “you must wander afar